


searching for something that we cannot define;

by cliffkiffle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Art School, Fluff, Gen, Peter is a Potter not a Piper lol, THIS IS NOT ANGST, Tattooed Peter, Wendy the Watercolourist, and i mean very loosely; i never painted a picture of someone and then tried to avoid them, based loosely on my time as an AS/IB art student, clandestine meetings in the dark-room a-go-go, it is REALLY Not Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cliffkiffle/pseuds/cliffkiffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art School AU in which Peter wants to meet the mysterious "Angela" whose artwork has caught his eye, and Wendy is desperate to fly under the radar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws paint in your face* ART

**why don’t you be the artist, and make me out of clay?**

* * *

Wendy is staring again. She knows she is, and she knows that if she doesn’t stop staring soon, the subject of her attention is going to notice. And then she’ll probably die of embarrassment. No change there, though: Wendy feels like she’s going to die of embarrassment at least three times a day. But if _he_ catches her staring, it really _will_ happen.

She drags her gaze down to her open sketchbook, but the half-finished sunflower on the page can’t distract her from the guy on the other side of the room. He comes in every Tuesday when she has still-life class, and works quietly in a pool of mid-afternoon sunlight at one of the potter’s wheels lining the back wall. Luckily for Wendy, both he and the rest of the class are so absorbed in their own work that they never notice her distraction. Because this guy is _seriously_ distracting, especially when he rolls his sleeves up and gets his hands stuck into the wet, shining red clay.

Wendy has spent a lot of time thinking about those hands: large and agile, probably warm and calloused, as many artists’ hands are, most likely talented at things other than clay-shaping. A pair of heavy leather cuffs sit around his wrists, and he never takes them off, even when he’s at work, so they’re pretty much permanently encrusted in clay. The guy has tattoos that start somewhere under the cuffs and snake all the way along his arms. Birds and butterflies and paper planes swoop across his skin and underneath his shirtsleeves. There’s a crown wrapped around his bicep, which Wendy has seen only once on the hottest day of the year, and she cherishes that memory even now. Vaguely piratey images of ships, crossbones, and nautical stars fill in the gaps. Her favourite of his tattoos — the only coloured one, a bright sun and a luminous moon folded together like fated origami on the back of his hand — is currently half-hidden under a smudge of clay. There’s a streak of it on his cheek, too, and Wendy would really like to rub it off with her thumb. But that would be a violation of personal boundaries.

She casts a sideways glance at the professor, but he’s working on his own project at his desk, barely aware of the students around him. When the class ends, he’ll probably be surprised to look up and see twenty students filing past him and through the door. Wendy leans down and pulls a tiny, battered sketchbook from her bag. Her potter’s sketchbook. She leafs through pages upon pages of the boy’s hands, in ink and watercolour and coloured pencils and biro. On a fresh page she begins a new study, trying to capture the fluid essence of clay-making; the wonderful way that the substance becomes a living thing underneath the guy’s hands. She can never quite replicate that mercurial, breathless, intangible atmosphere of the guy as he works, but she’s almost there.

At four pm, the professor looks up from his work, startled — as Wendy expected — to see his class preparing to leave.

“Don’t forget,” he calls, clapping his hands; a few people pause to listen, but most keep going. “The Spring showcase. If you want your work on display for classmates, future students, and even prospective customers, you need to submit by Monday.”

Wendy closes the cover on the sunflower sketch. She wants people to see her work, but nothing she’s done this semester so far jumps out at her as showcase-worthy. She’s painted plenty of flowers and landscapes, one rather nice piece of her brothers playing with the dog in the garden…but they’re all a little twee, too much like something you’d find on a get-well-soon card. Wendy herself is already a little twee, and she doesn’t really want to encourage that perception anymore. When did she become so predictable and uninspired? At her old school, Wendy’s whole identity had been art. But here, at the prestigious Fine Arts College, everyone is an artist. Everyone stands out. And Wendy’s never been good at that.

With a sigh, she pushes her portfolio away. She picks up the little sketchbook again. This is where her inspiration goes: all her best work is of the potter with the tattoos. Wendy has never shown these sketches to anyone, but she knew that if she did, they’d stop looking at her like they’re trying to work out exactly how she earned her place here.

* * *

Wendy skips her classes on Friday, choosing to spend all day in the little studio adjacent to the kiln, with the hope that she might see her potter. She could get by with just the material in her sketchbook, but the sight of him reverentially carrying a fragile grey bowl to the kiln just after lunch makes her glad she isn’t attending her Art History lecture: his dedication to art nurtures hers. She’s careful to spread a few large sheets of paper over her work as he passes her table. He’s never been so close before, and Wendy closes her eyes, gripping her paintbrush tightly as his presence kicks up a draft of air. He smells like damp clay and mown grass. Wendy sighs. After this piece is done, she should really get over her infatuation and find a new muse. One who actually notices her.

She finishes the piece on Sunday. Even with the limited palette, it’s vibrant. It’s memorable and it’s _good_ — really, properly good. It’s precisely what her classwork is not, what she _wants_ it to be. Wendy feels proud of herself for the first time since she was accepted to the college. She traces the striking lines of black ink, illuminated by traces of majestic gold leaf, with her finger, and makes a snap decision.

The art department is quiet: only a handful of students with upcoming deadlines choose to practise their craft on these few and far between days off. The showcase coordinator is in the gallery, sorting submissions and deciding where to hang them. She finds the perfect place for Wendy’s piece, low on the wall near the back doors.

There is a moment, as Wendy is filling in the submission form, where she thinks about the possibility of the potter seeing her work. He'd probably be appalled and disturbed by her frankly rather unhealthy fixation with his hands. That scares her, as it has every time she’s imagined it this week, but it’s too late now for doubts. The painting is hanging on the wall. Wendy tells herself that this is the best work she’s ever produced. It would be lunacy not to share it with the world. Besides, it’s such a tiny painting, amongst hundreds of others: what are the chances he’ll ever see it?

* * *

  **i tried out a smile, and aimed it at you; you must have missed it — you always do.**  

* * *

Peter loves clay pottery — he really, _really_ loves it, but at times like this when his phone is ringing and he can’t pick it up because his hands are covered in clay, he wonders if something less messy, like photography, might have been better.

He fumbles for the speaker button.

“Yup?”

“Peter,” Tigerlily says. She sounds bored, as always, but she must want to tell him something important, otherwise she’d have texted instead. “Am I on speakerphone? Take me off, because I have something extremely sensitive and private to tell you.”

Peter feels his face burn as the three other occupants of the room look over with interest, including a pretty girl in a blue dress that he’s only ever seen in the still-life class on Tuesday afternoons.

“Gimme a sec,” he says, and goes to the sink to wash his hands. He catches the eye of the girl again, and she looks down at her work hastily. He’s fairly sure that this girl is actually a Literature student from the college across town, enrolled in the still-life module here to unwind — little does she know that art is one of the most stressful subjects ever — because she’s always got two or three poetry anthologies with her. Plus, she just doesn’t _look_ like an artist. Artists are experimental, forgetful, messy; she is none of those things. She wears cute little dresses and bows in her hair, and shiny Mary-Jane shoes. If she were a _real_ artist, the dresses would be paint splattered; the hair dishevelled and held up by a pencil or paintbrush; the shoes scuffed and decorated with spilled dollops of ink or white spirit.

Peter grabs his phone and ducks out of the room.

“What’s this private information, then?” There’s a fleck of clay on his forearm — what else is new? — and he picks at it as Tigerlily replies.

“Have you visited the Spring showcase yet?”

“No,” Peter says, wondering why she’d ask. Tigerlily hates the showcases and only ever goes to poke fun at the pieces she thinks are pretentious. Peter doesn’t go at all, because there’s never very much 3D work, which he feels is unfair.

“I think you should go. There’s a piece that you’ll find very interesting.”

“Really?” Some porcelain work, perhaps? A stone carving or metalwork? “What is it?”

“It’s a painting of you.”

* * *

The gallery is dark and empty. It’s supposed to be shut for the night, but Tigerlily, who doesn’t care much for rules, strides in and flicks the lights. Peter blinks and looks around. There’s some good work in here, he’ll admit, but simply not enough variety. It looks like the gallery for a painting institute, not for a highly-ranked and diverse arts school. He pauses to look at a triptych of photographs on the wall: he recognises the work of his friend, Nibs, in the golden sunset light of the pieces.

“This way,” Tigerlily says, beckoning. Peter follows her to the back of the room, where a few students’ sketchbooks are on display. Mounted on the wall behind them is a piece done in ink. The only colour is the earthy, rich red; a colour Peter knows well, for it’s a painting of someone working with clay. Just a pair of hands, the pot taking shape under the fingertips. He leans closer, with a strange sense of deja vu. Those are _his_ hands. That’s _his_ tattoo, half hidden beneath the red; that’s _his_ pot, the one he finished a few weeks ago. It came out of the kiln cracked, a waste of three days’ work. Evidently not for this artist. The back of Peter’s neck prickles with the feeling of being watched, but he’s mostly flattered and impressed. The piece is startlingly good: a strange mix of realism and dynamic flowing lines, so that while he can see himself in the art, he can’t see the art in himself when he looks down at his hands. The artist is credited below simply as “Angela”.

“How does it feel to be someone’s muse?” Tigerlily asks, grinning.

He ignores her. “Who is Angela? Do you know any Angelas?” Tigerlily shakes her head. “I’ve got to find her — ask her why she painted _me_ …”

“Beats me,” says Tigerlily. “I can’t _imagine_ a more boring subject.”

“Shut up,” says Peter. “And let’s go, before someone catches us in here.”

“If they wanted to keep intruders out, they’d lock the doors,” she says. “That’s basic crime prevention.”

They turn towards said doors, and Peter’s eyes widen when he realises there’s someone just outside the door. It’s the girl — the English Lit one — clearly en-route from the library if the stack of books in her arms are any indication. She steps back as Tigerlily opens up the door.

“Gallery’s closed,” Tigerlily says.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the girl says, her eyes darting to Peter and then away. “But then that would mean you’re breaking the rules. And I’m sure _you_ wouldn’t do that.”

Peter laughs, mostly in surprise: very few people, upon seeing Tigerlily, with her half-shaved head and multiple piercings and visibly taut anger, would choose to provoke her. But this girl has, which means there’s more to her than dresses, pencil drawings of flowers, and _the Collected Works of the Romantic Poets_.

“Move along, honey,” Tigerlily says. “Must be almost curfew for you, right?”

The girl pulls herself up to her full height, which isn’t much, compared to Tigerlily. “You work with spray-paints, right? Anything of yours in here?” She cranes her neck to look. Again, her gaze slides right over Peter. He might as well be a painting of a bowl of fruit.

Tigerlily scoffs. “ _No_.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve seen some of your work; it’s really great stuff. Well,” the girl takes a step back from the door. “You two have a nice evening.”

Then she walks away.

Tigerlily sputters. Peter grins. “Re-hinge your jaw, Lil. There was bound to be one person on Earth you couldn’t intimidate. Looks like we found her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youtube.com/watch?v=H-ru2glqXAg


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else here actually really love lino printing? Even the tidying-up process was calming for me.

**you know, you know, you know (don’t you know?)**

* * *

Fate can be extremely cruel. Wendy’s artwork has been sitting in the gallery for a week, tucked in an inconspicuous corner, unobserved by most visitors. And then on the very night before the showcase comes down, who should see it but _him_?

Somehow she manages to keep her cool in front of the guy — Peter, she overheard someone calling him the other day — and his tall, striking friend, but as soon as she’s alone, she panics.

Peter wants to know _why_ she painted him? Well, that’s one question she’s never giving him the opportunity to ask, because the answer is simple: she has an obsession that refuses to die. How mortifying. She’s never going to be able to look at him again. She can never do another painting or sketch of him, either. In fact, it might be best if she gave up art altogether. For a few wild minutes, she considers transferring to the Performing Arts department (forgetting, momentarily, that she’s an even worse actor than she is a liar.) Some might call that an _overreaction_ ; Wendy calls it a _survival instinct_.

* * *

By the next morning, Wendy has hatched a plan. If Peter is looking for Angela, a girl who works with inks and watercolours, then Wendy needs to _not_ be that girl anymore. For the first time in her life, she’s going to _experiment_. No more dinky detailed drawings; she’s signing up for printmaking and oil painting and photography, for calligraphy and fashion design and mixed media  — everything under the sun, apart from pottery — until Peter forgets about that ill-judged painting of hers. Experimentation, like standing out, is something Wendy’s never been good at, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

On Monday morning, she marches down to the supply room. Curly, the attendant who keeps the shelves stacked and orders supplies for the school, greets her cheerfully.

“Don’t tell me you need a new box of watercolours _already_.”

“Actually,” Wendy says, “I want to buy some lino. I’m doing a lino-cut this week.”

Curly’s jaw actually drops. “You’re kidding. Didn’t you once tell me that lino tools scare you? And that you have nightmares about being sucked into the printing press?”

“Well, times change,” Wendy says firmly. “Where can I find the lino tools?”

Curly points towards the printing room. Wendy takes her piece of lino from him with a nod of thanks, and sets off with her mouth set into a determined line.

The printing room is remarkably small, considering how much is stuffed into it. Several printing presses, their rollers stained by ancient ink, line one wall while apparatus for screen-printing takes up most of the far end of the room. A dark-haired guy is hosing down one of the screens, and the sound of the water bouncing off the metal sink drowns out Wendy’s apprehension.

It doesn’t take Wendy long to realise that lino printing is hell. She doesn’t have the brain to work with negative space, to calculate how the layers should be cut to bring her vision to life. The inks are viscous and a nightmare to mix; even worse to clean. That morning, Wendy swears more times than she ever has before.

Finally, Wendy is ready to make her first print — The very first! Of six layers! And she needs to make several copies of each! — She puts her lino into the press, and the rollers grind to a halt with her work buried somewhere underneath.

“No, no, nooo!” Wendy moans, reversing the press in hopes that her work will reappear. “Come back!”

Up to this point, the screen-printing guy has made a gallant effort to ignore Wendy’s struggles. But now he comes to the rescue.

“You okay? Work stuck in the press?”

Wendy nods.

“This one’s a bit dodgy — the trick is to sort of lift it…” He takes hold of the side of the press, lifting the heavy machine so it’s tilted slightly, “Quick, turn the wheel!" — the rollers start to move — "I don’t know why, but it just works.”

“I don’t know if I’d be able to do that on my own,” Wendy says.

“Yeah, you’d be better off with the press on the left, next time. It’s far better behaved.” He smiles at her and hands her the print that has finally reemerged. “I’m Tootles, by the way.”

“Wendy.”

She peels the paper back from her lino, and sighs. The print is heavy with ink, patchy and bleeding across the paper, miles away from the design she’d envisioned.

“Hm. Too much ink. And _way_ too long in the press — not that that was your fault,” Tootles adds hastily. “Listen, I’ve got a free afternoon, if you want a hand.”

“Oh my gosh, that would be _great_!”

“Okay, first things first, newbie.” Tootles grins as he hands her an oversized, paint-splattered shirt. “Get this on. Don’t want to get any more ink on your dress.” He points to a fleck of green close to her neckline.

“It’s a badge of honour,” Wendy says seriously.

Tootles laughs. “Totally. If you’re not getting messy, you’re not doing art right. Put your hair up too: this ink is a bitch to wash out.”

Wendy doesn’t have a hairband with her, so she twists her hair up into a bun and skewers it with a wooden spoon lying on the countertop.

“Let’s do this,” she says.

* * *

  **see, i’ve got plans to get to you.**

* * *

Bella — known as fairy420 online, Fairy Godmother to her classmates, and Clarabella to her grandparents — hands Peter a latte and his change.

“I’m about to go on my break,” she informs him, “so I’ll come find you and you can tell me about your weird mission.”

“It’s not weird,” Peter protests, but Bella waves him off, and beckons the next customer forward.

He finds Tigerlily at a booth and sits down opposite her.

“After this, you owe me a favour,” Tigerlily says. “We’re talking _serious_ constructive criticism of my latest piece.”

“Sure,” says Peter, eyeing her can of cola. “You’re not _really_ meant to bring drinks from outside in here, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I hate coffee. It’s really bad for you.”

“And cola isn’t? Okay.” He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.

“I don’t see why you want to involve this random chick anyway,” Tigerlily says. She twiddles one of her earrings and messes with her hair, parting it so the shaved half of her head is hidden.

“She’s not random, she’s my friend, and she knows a lot of people. She might know Angela. You know people call her the Fairy Godmother?”

“Why’s that?” Tigerlily raises an eyebrow.

“She has the solutions to everyone’s problems.”

“Shut up.” Her lip twitches: almost a smile.

“Well, she can fix photoshop problems. Best digital artist in this school, apparently.”

“Are you talking about me?” Breathless, Bella slides into the booth beside Peter.

“About how you can help me in my quest,” Peter begins. “See, there’s this painting,” — Tigerlily whips out her phone and brings up the photo of Angela’s artwork — “Of me, and I want to know who did it.”

“Isn’t the artist’s name there on the plaque?” Bella points to the little card, pixelated and unreadable on the screen.

“You think we didn’t try that?” Tigerlily scoffs.

“It just says Angela,” Peter says. “I don’t know any Angelas.”

“Nor do I.” Bella frowns.

“But you must write hundreds of names on hundreds of coffee cups every day. You’re _bound_ to encounter her sooner or later.” 

“Peter, you’ve more of a brain than I thought,” Bella says with a smile. “That just might work. What are you going to say when you find her?”

“I…haven’t got that far yet.” Peter looks down at his hands. “‘Thank you’, I suppose.”

“Oh, no, I know that look.” Tigerlily pokes his arm. “God. You haven’t even met the girl and you’re in love with her.”

“Shut up.” Peter scowls as his cheeks redden.

“I’m going to be physically sick.”

“And who,” Bella says, jutting her chin in Tigerlily’s direction, “is the killjoy?”

“I am an unwilling participant in this investigation,” says Tigerlily.

“This is my best friend, Tigerlily,” Peter corrects. “She’s going to help me scour the art department for this girl.”

Bella rubs her hands together. “Ooh, this is exciting! We’re like detectives. Can we have code names?”

“There is no way in hell,” Tigerlily says, “that I’m answering to a code name.”

“Let me think.” Bella ignores Tigerlily, tilting her head to one side. “Yes — I shall be codename Beauty, for obvious reasons, and _you,_ ” — she eyes Tigerlily with a mischievous grin — “can be the Beast.”

Two girls in two days who are immune to Tigerlily’s unique flavour of scary. She is _not_ having a good week.

“Who does that make me, then?”

“Gaston?” Bella suggests. Peter shakes his head.

Tigerlily sucks in a breath. “Yikes. Even I know that’s not a favourable comparison.”

“Okay, how about Nemo? Get it, because we’re _searching_ for someone?”

“Nemo is the one everyone _else_ is looking for,” Tigerlily points out.

“I’ve known you five minutes and already you’re getting on my last nerve,” declares Bella.

“That’s the Tigerlily effect,” Peter says. He looks at his friend. “Time for us to make a move?”

“Yeah.” Tigerlily gets to her feet. “My painting is not going to critique itself, Peter.”

“Thanks so much for this, Beauty,” says Peter as he, too, stands.

Bella grins. “No problem, Nemo! Text me any updates!”

* * *

Peter takes a step back from Tigerlily’s enormous canvas to study the work as a whole.

“You see what I’m going for, right?” she asks. “Mixing the traditional with the modern? I want the _atmosphere_ and the _scale_ of Baroque, but a contemporary subject.”

“No, yeah, you’ve definitely got that. But it depends how much you’re trying to mesh the two movements, you know? These colours,” — Peter gestures to the upper portion, all purple and orange — “They’re sort of clashing with the piece as a whole for me.”

Tigerlily comes to stand beside Peter, squinting at her work with a critical eye. “Oh, you’re right. Jesus, that section’s terrible. How did I miss that?”

“It isn’t _terrible_ — just not…” Peter trails off as laughter ripples towards him. He turns to see two figures emerging from the printing room, realising, with an unsteady jolt, that he recognises the girl from the still-life class. She and her friend are simply plastered with ink — her shoes are ruined — and there’s a wooden spoon sticking out from the glossy tendrils of her hair. That is _so_ not the look of a Literature student.

“Peter? You gonna finish that thought?” Tigerlily snaps her fingers in front of his face. Then she, too, notices the girl. “Oh, it’s our gallery girl.”

The girl, having bid her friend goodbye, has spotted them. Surprisingly, she walks over to them. Her cheeks are pink with happiness, and some rather lovely dimples have appeared along with her smile. She is, Peter notices, not just pretty, but beautiful. It’s just a shame that she doesn’t seem at all interested in him.

“Hello!” she says to Tigerlily. “It’s _you_. See, now why wasn’t something like _this_ in the showcase? It’s fantastic. Although…” she pauses, biting her lip.

“No, what is it? Tell me,” Tigerlily growls.

“The upper third,” the girl says. “I think these colours are off. It’s too…” She waves her hands, trying to find the word.

“Too vibrant?” Peter puts in. She nods vehemently, and he smiles at her. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Yeah, yeah, two bloody peas in a pod,” Tigerlily mutters. “Well, what do you suggest?”

They exchange a look. The girl looks thoughtful, dedicated to finding a solution, while Peter's own gaze is drawn to her distractingly rosy lips.

“You want more blue,” she says slowly, “and if you tone the orange down to a nice warm ochre, that’ll really bring everything together.”

“And more tonal contrast. The rest of the canvas is so dynamic, and that section is ever so slightly flat.”

“When you’re done ripping my work to shreds,” Tigerlily says, but she’s smiling, pleased with the pair’s careful commentary of her work.

“I have to go,” the girl says, a touch sadly. “I have dinner plans, and I really need to clean this off beforehand.” She holds out her hands so they can see the stains. “But maybe I’ll see this masterpiece when it’s finished?”

“Maybe,” Tigerlily acquiesces. The girl smiles; already she’s got enough of a read of Tigerlily to know that means _yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youtube.com/watch?v=Y1DHYnsv6Gc


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the dark room. So many memories...so much tripping up in the dark.

**it's hard to stay cool when you smile at me, and i get nervous every time you speak.**

* * *

It takes an entire week for Wendy to complete her printing project. Tootles assures her that that’s about average for a complex print, but Wendy suspects he’s just being nice.

“So, what did you think of printmaking?” Curly asks, when Wendy returns to the supply room on Monday, cradling the portfolio of prints to her chest.

“Gosh, it’s harder than I thought,” Wendy says. She pulls out a sheet of paper to show Curly: a sailing ship on a multi-layered ocean. Curly nods, impressed. “And it’s so _messy_. I think next I’ll go for something a little more organised.”

“You mean like digital art, something like that?” Curly turns to steady a stack of new sketchbooks that are threatening to topple.

“I was thinking photography.” Wendy tucks the print back into her folder. “Not to boast, but I’m a bit of a Snapchat pro.”

“Oh, those point-and-shoot hipsters are gonna _love_ you. Here,” Curly digs through a drawer and finds a few film canisters, which he hands to Wendy. “On the house.”

“Why thank you, sir!” She curtsies, and he salutes as she walks backwards toward the photography department.

This experimental phase has been pretty fun, so far. The other day she even had the confidence to walk right up to Peter and his intimidating friend and have a semi-normal conversation. Her plan had been to keep below the radar, but upon reflection, what does it matter? Peter doesn’t know her name, and even if he did, there’s nothing to connect Wendy the print-maker to Angela the watercolorist. She skips into one of the labs. There are all kinds of cameras in here, and boxes full of old film, a white backdrop and studio cameras against the back wall, and a huge cupboard full of interesting objects for students to photograph. Before Wendy gets stuck in, she wants to check out the darkroom, which, to keep out the light, is along a twisty corridor and behind a heavy, windowless door.

It is much, _much_ darker than she’d imagined. The clue is in its name, but Wendy had always thought there must be _some_ light, so people could see what they were doing. How are people supposed to work in here? How do rolls of film vanish into this pitch-blackness only to emerge as glorious glossy prints? Across one wall, red safelights shine over work-spaces, but they aren’t powerful enough to illuminate anything. Wendy takes three steps into the room and crashes into the bay where the chemicals are kept. Developer sloshes over the edge of one of the baths and onto her feet.

”Hello? Is someone there?” The voice comes from near one of the red lights, and a figure shifts. Wendy jumps, and presses a hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.

“Yeah, sorry,” she says, and then she blushes: why did she apologise? “Um — this is the darkroom, right?”

“It is,” the stranger’s voice is tinged with amusement. “I’m guessing you’re not a photographer.”

“That obvious, huh?” she jokes. It’s dark enough that he can’t see her nuclear blush, but her face is so hot he can probably feel it. “Sorry, I’ll just — leave you to it…”

She takes a step towards the door, arms stretching blindly. Where’s the door? Wendy is sure it was behind her, but that’s just a wall…her fingers brush against a line of photographs drying, and she snatches her hands back, keen not to destroy anyone’s work. She stumbles over something on the floor, biting her lip to restrain a curse, and bumps right into the mysterious stranger.

“I’m not a photographer, either,” he confesses as he places a hand on her back to steady her. His fingers are warm and callused, his voice deliciously low and faintly familiar. “I’m meeting a friend in here.”

“Odd place to meet,” Wendy says, a little breathless and hoping that he won’t notice.

“Well, he doesn’t _know_ I’m meeting him…it’s a surprise.”

“Oh, so you’re trying to frighten him half to death.” Wendy is joking; maybe even flirting, which isn’t something she's used to. She hopes she’s doing it right.

“In my defence, Nibs started it,” he says, and Wendy turns to face him in the dark. He’s so close that she can feel the heat of his chest against her own but she doesn’t want to step away in case she trips. “He hid behind a stack of sketchbooks in the supply cupboard and jumped out at me when I went to get a new one.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re involved in a prank war.”

“If you like, yeah.”

Wendy can tell that he’s smiling. A comfortable silence stretches between them, but spurred on by curiosity, Wendy fills it: “So, if you aren’t a photographer, what are you?”

“I’m a sculptor,” he says. “Well, a potter, really — but somehow girls don’t find pots as impressive as sculptures.”

That’s when it clicks. This is _Peter_ she’s talking to; Peter she’s making a fool of herself in front of; Peter who smells fantastic up close and whose hand is still on her waist. 

“Oh,” she squeaks. “Well, I’m sure your pots are very…nice,” she finishes lamely. She takes a step away, and he finally moves his hand.

“See, now you’ve lost interest.”

“No — _no_ — but I was actually, erm, looking for the editing suite, not the darkroom, so — it was nice to meet you…I don’t suppose you know where the door is?” She finishes rather desperately, as she encounters yet another stretch of blank wall.

“Right here.” Peter takes her hand, where it’s resting against the wall, and moves it just a foot to the left until she’s gripping the door handle.

“Thanks,” she breathes, her heart fluttering, eager to leave this nightmare once and for all. But before she can, his hand tightens around hers.

“What’s your name?”

“Wendy.”

“Oh.” Strangely, it sounds as if he’d been hoping for a different answer, and the disappointment in his voice makes her stomach sink. “I’m Peter.”

Wendy only just restrains herself from saying _I know._ She swallows and says instead: “Hello, Peter. And goodbye — I’ve _really_ got to go.”

“The editing suite is the second room on the right!” he calls after her, as she scurries out into the hallway.

Wendy strides back to the supply room.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she says, “I don’t want to do photography this week.” _Or ever._

“You okay?” asks Curly. “You’re very red.”

“Yep,” she chirps. “But I think I’ll try oil painting instead. What — what will I need for that?”

Curly looks at her for another long moment before he shrugs. “Paintbrushes would be a good place to start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youtube.com/watch?v=qrPJx4_QB0g


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The layout of this school is based heavily on my own school. I wonder if anyone else can tell.

**a goodbye just as soon as i said hello;**

* * *

 Peter spreads the shards of a broken bowl across the table. The smooth, pearl-pink glaze gleams as he studies it thoughtfully.

“So you dropped this bowl,” Tigerlily says, glancing up from her sketchbook, “On purpose?”

“That is exactly what I did.”

“Why.”

“Have you heard of kintsugi?” Peter says, picking up two of the pieces and holding them together. A crack of light shines through the seam. “Golden joinery. It’s this idea that you shouldn’t try to hide damage, but celebrate it instead.” He lays the pieces back down and pulls his sketchbook towards him, jotting down a few ideas next to a print-out of a kintsugi pot.

“Cute,” Tigerlily says. “But whats the _point_? What part of _yourself_ are you bringing to it — how are you going to make this piece _unique_?”

“Well, that’s where I’m stumped.”

Peter writes the word _unique_ on the page and circles it a few times. 

“Have a look at mine, while you think.” Tigerlily shoves her sketch towards him.

“Now this is very Caravaggio,” he says as he inspects the design.

“Yeah, I’m going for chiaroscuro.” Tigerlily leans over to correct part of the sketch.

“And all these predator animals…this couldn’t be any more _you_ unless you tagged it.”

“But sadly my tagging day are over.” She grins.

“How big is this one gonna be?”

“ _Big_.”

“Lil, pretty soon your canvases aren’t going to fit in through the door. You’ll have to work outside.”

“I could prop the canvas up against a wall — it’d be just like old times.”

Peter’s phone buzzes and he flips it over to read the text: it’s Bella.

_NEMO!!! get to coffee shop STAT !!! I just served an Angela !!!_

* * *

“Well? Where is she?” Peter leans as casually as he can against the cake display, scanning the tables eagerly.

“Right there.” Bella points to a girl sitting with her back to the tills. Her hair is long and red.

“Tigerlily, go talk to her.”

“Me?” Tigerlily looks up. “Why can’t _you_?”

“Because that’d be weird! I don’t want it to seem like I’m accusing her.”

Tigerlily sighs and stalks over to the table. Peter follows and slides into a chair a few feet away, heart racing and ears warm. From here he can see the girl’s face: green eyes and freckles, a pair of glasses low on the bridge of her nose as she scrolls through something on her phone.

“Excuse me.” Tigerlily leans on the table, looking more confrontational than she perhaps realises. Angela looks up, startled. “This is probably going to sound strange, but didn’t I see your artwork in the Spring showcase a few days back?”

“My artwork?” She shakes her head. “I think you have the wrong girl. I’m not an artist.”

“No? You sure?” Tigerlily digs out her phone to show Angela the photo.

“I’m sure. I’m a Drama student.” She smiles apologetically. “It’s a good drawing, though.”

“It’s a painting,” Tigerlily mutters, turning to Peter with a helpless shrug. Peter looks across at Bella, who is watching eagerly from behind the till, and shakes his head. Her face falls. _Sorry, Nemo_ , she mouths.

He gets up, plucking at Tigerlily’s sleeve. “C’mon, Beast. Thanks, Bella. I’ll text you later.”

“We’ll get her next time!” Bella calls after them. Tigerlily shakes her head.

“She’d better be worth all this effort.”

* * *

**there's a thought, so how 'bout this?**

* * *

Oil painting is weird. Wendy wonders if she’ll ever be able to get used it. It’s not like watercolours, where the key is layering; oils are all about blending. Well, her first few attempts blended into a muddy mess. She’s ruined about three sets of brushes by leaving them in the white spirit until the bristles got damaged. But this latest painting is a real gem. The colours shine; the paint is delightfully impasto, and best of all, it’s so far from anything she usually does that there’s no way anyone might take her for Angela. She lays the painting down to dry on her desk and turns to clean her palette.

“Watch out!”

As Wendy moves, the paintbrush in her jar of white spirit catches in the sleeve of her jumper. The boy in the seat next to her makes a move to catch it, but he’s too late. Liquid splashes across Wendy’s canvas; the jar rolls to the floor and smashes; Wendy looks on in horror as the white spirit starts eating into the still-wet paint.

There’s an awful silence as everyone turns to stare. Wendy grabs for her canvas but it’s too late. All she gets for her troubles is an imprint of her fast-disintegrating painting on her palms. The boy on her left jumps down from his stool to grab a dustpan and brush, sweeping up wet glass shards. Wendy reaches for a stained towel, dabbing half-heartedly at the desk.

“Ouch,” the boy says as he straightens up and catches sight of the ruined canvas. “That really sucks.”

Wendy tries to smile, but his kind attempt at levity only makes her feel worse. She mutters something about getting cleaned up, seizes her canvas, and bolts from the studio into the first quiet room she encounters, which just so happens to be the printing room. Only Tootles is in there, washing his hands at one of the sinks.

“Hi, Wendy. Haven’t seen you in a few days…oh, no, have you had a disaster?” He takes in Wendy’s paint-stained hands, her wobbly chin, and scoops a dollop of citrus-scented hand cleaner from the tub, slapping it onto her palms. She scrubs the paint away, turning the tap on so he won’t notice her tears.

“I’ve r-ruined it! I worked so h-hard on it…”

“No, it’s okay!” He picks the canvas up. “It’s salvageable.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Tootles offers Wendy an ancient, ink-stained towel to wipes her hands with, looking away tactfully as she dabs the tears from her cheeks.

“If anyone’s being ridiculous, it’s you,” Tootles argues, and Wendy raises her eyebrows. “Art isn’t about making something perfect, it’s about creating something from nothing. Doesn’t matter if it’s ugly or flawed. It’s still art; it’s still worth something.” As Wendy still looks doubtful, Tootles takes her hand and leads her into the foyer near the supply room, where the light is better. “Humour me, and try just one thing to improve this piece. If it doesn’t work, you can start fresh. I won’t even judge you for it.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“Something multi-media, perhaps? Acrylic would go over the worst of the — erm — _smudging_ , and you could add a collage of some sorts?”

“What’s going on here?” Curly, en route to the supply room with a box of brand new sable bushes, pauses, shifting the box from one hand to the other.

“We’re trying to fix a catastrophe.”

He puts the brushes down on the table. “Have you considered deliberate destruction? Slicing the canvas, chopping it up, maybe even burning it?”

“I don’t think,” Wendy says carefully, “that total ruination is the way I really want to go.”

The three of them look down at the canvas.

“A collagraph might look quite good over the top.”

“Have you used stencils before?”

“I’ve seen free embroidery used very effectively in the past.”

“Sorry, Tootles,” — Wendy shoves the painting away from her — “but I think we’ll have to count this one as a loss.”

“Count what as a loss?”

Wendy looks up to see Peter’s friend leaning across the table.

“My oil painting.”

“She doesn’t like any of our ideas to fix it,” Curly explains.

The girl contemplates the problem. Then: “Spray paint,” she announces with confidence. Wendy looks at her, doubtful. “No, really — hold on.” She goes into the supply room (Curly complains weakly that students aren’t allowed in there without a member of staff) and comes back with an old canvas: someone’s abandoned artwork. She digs in her bag for a couple of canisters and sets to work. A cloud of paint particles rise into the air, and Wendy and the boys all take a step back.

When she put her paints down, the drab unfinished artwork is transformed. Colour swirls across it, parting just enough to reveal tantalising glimpses of the still-life beneath.

“And _voila_ , gallery girl.”

“It’s Wendy,” Wendy corrects, picking up the girl’s offering gingerly.

“And I’m Tigerlily. C’mon, I’ll lend you some paint.” Tigerlily looks at the others. “Thanks, boys, but we’ve got it from here.”

“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” Wendy says to Tootles. He pulls her in for a quick hug before hurrying back to his own work in the printing room.

“Here.” Curly presses one of the sable brushes into Wendy’s hand. “On the house.”

Tigerlily takes Wendy by the arm, and leads her to the studio she’s been working in. The back doors are thrown wide to let in a breeze of cool, fragrant spring air.

“It’s outside,” Tigerlily says, catching Wendy looking around the room for her work. “Wouldn’t fit through the doors.”

Wendy peeks out at the huge canvas. Tigerlily’s still laying the base colours at the moment, so it looks like a dark hole in the wall, waiting to swallow someone up.

“Here,” Tigerlily shakes a collection of spray paints from her bag. “Just go to town on your piece. It’ll be therapeutic, if nothing else.”

Wendy takes the paints back inside, looking at her work thoughtfully. From outside comes the hiss of Tigerlily at work, and encouraged by the sound, Wendy picks up a green paint and sprays a wet, speckled line across the worst of the damage.

She works slowly, fascinated by the way each new colour changes the painting in subtle ways. Occasionally Tigerlily comes in, standing over her shoulder silently like an examiner, but Wendy detects approval in the girl’s reticence.

It’s a rather heavenly afternoon, and Wendy wonders whether she should just switch to graffiti full-time, so relaxing and satisfying is the process. Then the door to the room bangs open and Peter bounds in, clay freckling his face, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’ve had a breakthrough! Oh,” — he sees Wendy and the excitement on his face falters. “You aren’t Tigerlily.”

“She’s outside,” Wendy says, looking down, because his disappointed expression is painful.

Peter looks at the open doors, but takes a few steps towards Wendy instead.

“I thought you were a printmaker.”

“I’m a Jack of all trades,” she says, “Except life drawing and pottery.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And what have those two subjects ever done to you?”

“Nothing. Life drawing is…you know,” she pauses, her cheeks flooding with colour as she leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid. Peter smirks.

“And pottery?”

“I’ve just never tried it.”

“Well, maybe we could—”

At the moment Tigerlily comes in.

“Peter, good. You’re here. Come and look at this.” She beckons and with a shrug, Peter follows her, leaving Wendy to wonder exactly what he was about to suggest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youtube.com/watch?v=JcBywQl6PTI


	5. Chapter 5

**i’ve been looking for the only one**

* * *

 Wendy stays late that evening, helping Curly to organise the supply room. He gives her a fine-liner and a putty rubber for her trouble. She’s cutting across the lawn and the sun is just disappearing behind the art buildings when a sudden shout halts her. She turns to see a tripod set up some metres away: she’s walking right in its line of sight. Wendy circles round to the camera and its user.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you were there. Did I ruin your shoot?”

“What shoot?” the photographer says rather grumpily. “My model’s just texted me to say she can’t come tonight, and I’m losing the golden hour, and the forecast is cloudy for a solid week after today…”

“Well,” Wendy says slowly, “I could fill in if you want? As long as you don’t want me to do anything drastic.”

“Define drastic,” he says, turning the camera in her direction, capturing her half-smile.

“Like stripping to my underwear or setting myself on fire.” She takes a few steps into a patch of sunlight. “How’s this?”

“That’s perfect. And no, nothing like that. Just be yourself.” He peers over the top of the camera for a moment. “It’d work best with Mimi — my model. We know each other so well at this point, she can just let her guard down. That’s what I want,” he adds. “Candid; natural.”

“I can do that.” The photographer waits as Wendy wrings her hands. “The thing is,” she says, anxious to explain her discomfort, “You are a literal stranger. And I was brought up to not let my guard down with strangers.”

“Let’s introduce ourselves then. I’m Nibs. I’m a photography student,” — he waves his hand at the tripod as if to say _obviously_ — “and I transferred here last semester, so I have approximately three friends. Four, if this conversation goes well.”

“I’m a painter,” Wendy tells him, “though I’m currently taking a…a break from my usual medium.”

“Do much photography?” Nibs asks, pulling his eye away from the lens to adjust the aperture.

“No. I went into the darkroom for the first time the other day and got lost. Almost fell into the developing solution.”

“Happens to the best of us. First time I went into a darkroom, I got tangled in the line people pegged their work on to dry. I was _not_ popular.”

Wendy covers her mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh…”

“You _should_ ,” Nibs corrects. “Looking back, it’s pretty hilarious.” He detaches the camera from the tripod. “Let me take a few close-ups, before the light is completely gone.”

* * *

When the golden hour has passed, Wendy and Nibs return his camera to the photography department and walk together to the car park.

“Sure I can’t drive you home?” Nibs says, hand resting on the passenger door of his car.

“No, thank you, I only live a few streets away,” Wendy says.

She walks away, through the night punctured by streetlights. There’s a shortcut along an alley behind the post office. It’s dark, but she’s walked this route so many times she can find her way even now. But this evening Wendy has the sense that there’s someone close by, just out of sight in the darkness. She stands still, listening hard, hand clenched tight around her phone.

From just around the corner comes a strange sound: a burst of hissing, a pause as something rattles, and the hiss again. Then there’s a metallic clang, and a small cylindrical object rolls out of the darkness towards her.

“Shit,” says an unknown voice, as Wendy stoops to pick it up: a can of spray paint.

Suspicion solidifies into certainty, and she says, “Tigerlily?”

There’s a silence before Tigerlily comes into view. “Wendy? What are you doing here?”

“I’m walking home,” she says, “What are _you_ doing?”

“Something illegal,” Tigerlily admits. “You won’t tell Peter, will you?” she adds, eyes widening. “I don’t normally do this, and he’d be so disappointed in me…”

Wendy hands the paint can back. “I won’t tell him. _Or_ the police.”

“Thanks.” She smiles. “I’ll walk home with you; where d’you live?”

“No — I want to see it first.” Wendy steps around the corner and gazes up at the piece: a snarling tiger, black and orange, eight feet high. “Is that…your tag?” she hazards.

Tigerlily shakes her head. “No, just a throw-up. I’d show you my tag now, but I don’t _really_ want to put my name to this piece.”

“Maybe you can show me at school tomorrow.”

“Sure. I’d _love_ for the people who gave me my scholarship to be reminded that I’m a young offender.”

“With your portfolio, I can hardly imagine anyone’s forgotten.”

“Yeah, well, technically I’m retired. I just had an urge, y’know? Couldn’t stop myself.”

Wendy shakes her head. “I can’t even imagine what that feels like.”

Tigerlily looks at her for a moment, and holds out the canister. “Here’s your chance to find out.” As Wendy hesitates, she says, “Go on. Just one little spray.”

Heart in her mouth, Wendy raises the canister, pressing down on the nozzle. She sprays a lopsided flower on the wall beside the tiger.

“See? Fun, right?”

Wendy starts to reply, to say that spraying a solitary flower isn’t quite the same as creating a carnivorous mural, but then there are footsteps approaching. Without pausing to discuss, she and Tigerlily break into a run, pounding along the pavement and round a corner.

“It’s probably for the best,” Wendy whispers, as they pause for breath at a bus stop, “if you _stay_ retired.”

“I think you’re right.”

* * *

  **but you don’t seem to come my way**

* * *

 “I think I’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Peter says. Tigerlily turns from her newest canvas to examine his work. “No — not that.” He closes the sketchbook. “I mean the search for Angela.”

“That again? Don’t worry about it. She’ll turn up eventually.”

“That’s just the thing, isn’t it? She _hasn’t_. And just waiting for her to fall into my lap is frankly naive. No, what we need to do is actively seek her out.”

“How are you going to do that? Can’t exactly find her email on the school registry.”

Actually, that had crossed his mind, but contacting all the Angelas in the school to tell them of his plight seemed like a step too far in the direction of stalker.

“I can ask the coordinator of the showcase,” Peter says, “And talk to tutors to see if any of them recognise the style.”

“God, that sounds like a chore. Can’t you just let it be a mystery? One of those things in life,” — she pauses to spray indigo paint over a corner of her work — “that you’ll just never know for sure?”

“Aw. I can’t tell if that sentiment is romantic or just lazy.”

“That’s my laziness talking, because I know — I _know_ — you’ll want to drag me along.”

Peter grins guiltily and Tigerlily sighs and wipes her hands clean on her painting shirt. “And I just can’t say no to your stupid, clay-y face.”

* * *

“Hmm.” Lydia Bassett, resident watercolour expert of the art department, peers over half-moon spectacles at the photo of Angela’s artwork. “Yes, I remember this piece. But I can’t say I recognise the style, and I like to think that I know all my student’s styles.” She looks up at them with the ghost of a smile. “Of course, you students are apt to experiment — as you should!” Lydia hands the phone back. “Have you visited any of the life drawing classes? This anatomy is particularly skilled; I wouldn’t be surprised if you found the artist there.”

With a smile of thanks, Peter and Tigerlily withdraw from Lydia’s office. Tigerlily slaps Peter’s arm with the back of her hand. “That’s what _I_ said.”

“Really? Was that before or after you told me to give up the entire thing?”

“After,” Tigerlily says decisively. “Right, I’m off to get some coffee, and fill Bella in.”

“We didn’t even find anything,” Peter calls after her. “Are you using this quest as an excuse to steal my friend? You don’t _drink_ coffee!”

Tigerlily keeps walking, and Peter sighs. En route back to the kiln, he passes the photography labs, and pauses outside one to inspect a display of recent work. 

“Nibs,” he calls to his friend inside the editing suite. “This isn’t your usual model, is it?”

Nibs wheels his computer chair out into the hallway. “Oh, no — she just offered to help out when Mimi was ill last week.”

“But I _know_ her.” He shouldn’t be surprised; it’s a small department at a small school, and coincidences like this are common. But a few weeks ago, this gallery girl was a distant star; a peripheral planet. Now she’s an unknown constant with an orbit that intersects his own. How long before they collide?

“Really? How do you know Wendy?”

A few things fall into place and the floor drops out of Peter’s mind. The girl in these photographs, hand pressed to her mouth to repress a giggle, sunset light illuminating her golden hair, eyes sparkling with mirth,

is the girl in the still-life class

is the ink-splattered girl with flushed cheeks and a dimpled, beaming smile

is the Jack of all trades who’s never used a potter’s wheel

is the girl in the darkroom, whom he’d hoped for a fraction of a moment was Angela.

“She critiqued Tigerlily’s work the other day.”

“And she’s still alive?” Nibs grins. “Yeah, it was really nice of her to step in. And they came out well, didn’t they?”

Peter nods. He doesn’t like the way Wendy is smiling in the pictures — because he wishes she’d reserve that kind of smile for him and him alone, which is absurd — but objectively they are incredible.

“I’ve actually asked her to model for my light trail series. And I could use your help, too, if you’re free? Peter? Peeeter.” Nibs punches Peter lightly on the arm.

“Hm? Oh, sure, whatever you need,” Peter agrees.

“Cool. Thursday night, seven pm.” He punches Peter’s arm again, and rolls back into the editing suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youtube.com/watch?v=kbKcBbFXN5g


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS this story is actually finished? all that's left is to post it? just. remind me to do that.

**you're like pretty grace kelly in a black and white scene**

* * *

 Wendy’s not quite sure why she’s loitering outside the life drawing class. She just needs to suck it up and go in. But there’s a reason she’s never done life drawing before, and the reason is that her face is going to betray her. Wendy is a sensible girl, and she shouldn't be embarrassed by nudity… but she’s going to blush anyway.

A few students stride into the classroom, chatting calmly, unaware of Wendy’s dilemma. Taking a deep breath, she scurries into the room behind them. It’s a popular class: so much so that it requires two models to accommodate all the students. The seats are ranged into two circles at either end in the room, with a stool in the centre of each for the models. Wendy takes a seat and props her sketchbook up on her easel, trying to shrink herself as small as possible behind it. Her fingers shake as she pulls a pencil from her bag; how ridiculous she is being!

The two models emerge from behind a screen, clad in white wraps, completely at ease. They’ve both got fantastic cheekbones, long, slender limbs, and haughty expressions that serve to increase Wendy’s apprehension. One has slightly longer hair, and the other has a nose piercing, but they are otherwise identical: clearly twins.

“You know the drill,” the professor announces, bringing the other students’ conversations to a halt. “Fifty minutes; five poses; ten minutes on each.” She nods to the models, and they take up their positions, shedding their robes with impressive lack of self-consciousness.

Wendy puts a lot of thought into her first sketch and discovers — when the model moves after ten minutes and Wendy has only drawn his hands — that thought is not what this class demands. She does a little better on her second and third sketches, and manages to get the entirety of the model’s torso down on paper before he moves again. Then she gives up on trying to capture the whole of him and goes for detail instead.

It’s not as bad as Wendy had been imagining, but when the class draws to a close, she doesn’t think she’ll be returning. If she really wanted to draw naked people, she could do that in the privacy of her own home without worrying about people judging her. She thinks she has learned something, though, and as she reflects, she misses the foot of the easel protruding in her path and trips spectacularly. Sheets of paper flutter out of her portfolio in a glorious circle around her.

Face red with a combination of embarrassment and pain, Wendy scrambles to collect her work. A pair of hands gathers a few drawings into a pile and offers them to her. She looks up to see the model with the long hair crouching beside her, clad once again in his white robe.

“Er — thanks.” Wendy seizes the drawings, reaching for the rest still on the floor before the model looks too closely. It’s too late; already he’s inspecting something she sketched in a fit of daring: not only Peter’s hands, but his arms and torso and face as well. She should have destroyed it in a fire when she had the chance.

“Wow, these are good,” the model says. “You really like this model, huh? You know, I think he used to take the same bus as me to school.”

It’s an innocent attempt at friendliness based on a mutual acquaintance so he must be startled by Wendy’s response: “You can’t tell him!” she says, stuffing the drawings into her folder.

“Uh, why not?” He smiles, a little bemused.

Wendy sighs. “It’s a long story.”

The model straightens up and offers her a hand. “You know, I think I have time. Just let me get dressed.”

* * *

 Tigerlily and Peter are passing through the foyer when a door on their left opens and students stream out.

“Hey, that’s the life drawing class.” Peter says, and hands his bag to Tigerlily. “Hold this while I go talk to the professor.”

“What am I, your valet?” Tigerlily calls after him.

Though the classroom is almost empty now, Peter is pleased to see that the professor is still there, stacking easels. He’s halfway across the room when he spots Wendy waiting in front of a folding room divider. She looks particularly lovely today, in a shell-pink dress with a bow at the small of her back, hair tied with a ribbon of the same colour. She hasn’t noticed Peter, and when a lithe, gorgeous boy — obviously the model from the class — emerges from behind the screen, they leave the room together. Had she been lying, then, when she told him she didn't like life drawing? Why? And another, more pressing query: is she dating that model?

“Can I help you?” the professor asks.

Peter turns, dragging his mind away from Wendy to focus on Angela. He explains his dilemma.

“I don’t know of any Angela in this department,” the professor says. “Is it a pseudonym?”

“That would make a lot of sense,” Peter says, his heart sinking as he realises that the possibility doubles the difficulty of his quest.

Tigerlily has gone on to their usual studio and dumped his bag unceremoniously on the floor.

“Well?” she demands.

“Nothing. No — I tell a lie. Angela might not even be this girl’s real name, so I’m genuinely, completely, at a loss.”

Tigerlily bites her lip. “Look, I know I’ve complained a lot about this crazy quest, but it clearly means a lot to you, and I’m kind of invested in seeing it through now.”

“Me too. Here’s an idea, though, shall we focus on art for a change? Do you want to see my kintsugi bowl?”

She nods, and Peter fetches it for her.

“Ooh, yeah, I like this.” Tigerlily turns the bowl over in her hands. Each fragment is glazed with a unique colour. “What’s the story?”

“Each piece represents someone important to me. There’s you, Bella, my foster-father…” Peter points to a red section, shattered and repaired several times over.

“And the base of the bowl, that’s you?” Tigerlily runs her finger over the circular piece, bumpy and shining with the mixture of glazes that have pooled in the bottom.

“Yeah.”

He takes the bowl back, curving his hands around it, his fingertip pressing against the raw edge where a piece is missing.

“You’re complete without them, you know,” Tigerlily says, unexpectedly perceptive, “Your parents, I mean.”

“I know.”

* * *

  **i can’t help it; got you memorised**

* * *

 The model’s name is Malachi, and his twin — who tags along when Mal tells him that they’re headed to the cafe for coffee and a story — is Rafe.

“So you aren’t,” Rafe clarifies, as they queue to order their drinks, “A life drawing regular, then?”

“No.” She shakes her head. The barista, pen poised against a cardboard cup, asks for her name; Wendy give it, and steps to the side so the twins can place their orders. “I’ve just picked up a few new classes.”

“Because…?” Mal prompts.

They sit down, and Wendy casts a furtive glance around before she answers.

“I painted a picture of someone, and they saw it, and I really wish they hadn’t.”

“Okay, I think I’m putting the pieces together.” Mal nods slowly. “It was that guy, right, in the sketches? You know the one,” he adds to Rafe. “He’s a potter. Got tattoos on his arms.”

“Oh, _him._ Yeah, he’s _fit_.” Rafe sits back in his chair with a wistful sigh.

“You have a boyfriend,” his brother reminds him.

“I do. His name is Felix,” Rafe tells Wendy, “he’s a music student, and he’s honestly the most talented person I’ve ever met…” he lapses into a lovestruck silence.

“Wendy doesn’t need to know about that,” Mal says.

“No, I do!” Wendy is eager to jump onto another subject.

“Nah, he’s right. Go on, tell us the rest.”

“I never thought Peter’d see it, but now he’s looking for me. For Angela — that’s the name I put on the piece.”

“So?” says Mal. “I bet he’s flattered! Why don’t you just go and tell him yourself? Own it.”

“I can’t! It’s so embarrassing. And he’ll probably think I only drew him because I fancy him.”

“You _do_ fancy him.”

“I don’t want him to _know_ that!” She wails. The barista looks over sharply and she lowers her voice. “I’d _die_ if he did.”

“Well, you don’t stand a chance if you hide your feelings,” Rafe says, rather wisely.

“I don’t stand a chance if I tell him, either,” she says miserably, thinking back to the exchange in the darkroom, when Peter had seemed so disappointed to learn her name.

“Well, I’m following so far,” Rafe says slowly. “But my question is: why exactly have you signed up for a billion new classes? You’re probably three times more likely to bump into this Peter now.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bump into him while I’m making a cyanotype or a digital painting. If he never sees me working with ink, he’ll never connect _me_ with the painting. See?”

The twins exchange a glance.

“So you’re telling me,” Mall says slowly, “you’ve altered your entire summer schedule for this guy?”

“To _avoid_ the guy!” Rafe interjects. “It’d be different if you were on a quest of true love, but…”

“I never thought about it like that.” She bites her lip. “Do you think it’s a mistake?”

Mal grins. “I think it’s amazing! I’d love to just,” — he spreads his hands to indicate giving up and letting go — “do whatever the hell I felt like, and screw what everyone thinks I should be doing.”

“I _am_ having a lot of fun so far,” she allows.

“Have you had any wacky adventures yet?”

“A few,” says Wendy. She decides not to tell them about her foray into vandalism for Tigerlily’s sake.

“What are you trying next?”

“I was thinking about a textiles project,” she says slowly, “And maybe calligraphy.”

“Why limit yourself to art?” Mal asks. “Sign up for ballet, while you’re at it.”

Wendy’s face scrunches into a grin. “I tripped over an easel earlier. Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Rafe looks down at his phone to check the time. “Well,” he says, “How about joining a band instead?”

* * *

When Peter and Tigerlily get to the cafe, it’s packed. Classes have just finished, and it seems as though every student requires a caffeine hit to get them through the evening. They sit down at a table only recently vacated; an empty cup still sits on the table. Peter picks it up to move it, and freezes mid-action as he reads the name on the cup. He turns it round with a strange, surprised thrill.

Tigerlily glances at the cup. “That girl is everywhere. Do you know I ran into her last night on my way to the shop?” She tuts and shakes her head.

“It’s like, once you notice someone, you can’t stop,” Peter murmurs.

“And yet _Angela_ is nowhere to be found.”

“Here, lemme get that for you…” Bella, in full customer-service mode, bustles over to clean the table. “Oh, if it ain’t my two favourite sleuths!” She holds out a hand expectantly, and Peter realises belatedly that she’s waiting to be given the cup, to throw it away.

“Yes,” Tigerlily says thoughtfully. “I rather like that Wendy.”

“Me too,” says Peter. Tigerlily glances at him rather sharply.

“That the girl who was just sat here?” Bella says. “She and her friends were being pretty loud.”

“Her friends?” Peter asks as casually as he can. 

“Yeah, some twins from the Drama department,” she says. “They do some modelling too — very popular, twins are, in art. Couldn’t hear most of the conversation over the damn music,” — she pauses, so they can all hear the doleful folk song on the sound system — “But it sounded like they were forming a band.”

Tigerlily looks at Peter. “What the fuck,” she says, “kind of life is that girl leading?” 

“Never mind _that_ ,” Bella says. “What’s the sitch with Angela?”

“Bad news, Kim Possible. Seems she was probably using a fake name to submit her artwork. We’re back to square one.”

“Worse than square one,” Peter corrects.

They sit in a gloomy silence. Bella wipes the table, sweeping spilled sugar onto the floor. Then she drops the cloth, flapping her hands and too excited, momentarily, to speak. 

“What medium was the painting, again?”

“Ink and gold leaf,” Peter says. He’s looked at the little information plaque long enough that the information is indelibly etched in his memory.

“You need to go to the supply store!” she says. “Angela probably bought the supplies there, right? So just ask if anyone’s bought any gold leaf — or if there’s anyone who often buys inks and watercolour paper.”

“That’s a pretty good idea,” Tigerlily says.

“I _know._ ” Bella beams. “And I don’t want to get your hopes up but this might be it, it really might!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youtube.com/watch?v=EjgtxVxE14A


End file.
